Coming To Church Poem by Tom Goff

The pink of her blouse
pairs with his powder blue
shirt. He won't leave the house
without her coming too.

Like his hair, hers is white-
woven gray, but more feathered.
His is brushed infant-fine, slightly
blacker, less weathered.

Late, they crabstep cramped aisles
as his smoothly stained cane,
rubber-tipped, taps small miles.
Their shin-stubborn pavane

of alignment declares,
Time may take what it takes.
They accept folding chairs
in one pivot of aches.

Her slim jawline's the bearer
of tautness─ prepared for
her part as the carer
and his as the cared-for.